by Daniel Knapp
"I have letters addressed to me. And I came seeking you out at the suggestion of Senator Gwin."
"Gwin spoke about a matter he wished me to discuss with Barnett, but since I have never met the man, I cannot vouch that you are he."
"Good God, aren't letters addressed to me enough?"
"Unless you have something official…"
"I do not. And this is outrageous. I will see to it…"
"See, my ass," the red-bearded man shouted. "You got nothin' official, you got nothin' to say in this affair."
The crowd roared in approval. Esther slipped down from the buckboard and, emotion overriding reason, began making her way toward the edge of the buildings.
"You will answer for this indignity," Barnett said.
"Go to hell, you goddamned windbag!" someone shouted.
"What is your name?" Barnett said angrily, as the red-bearded man pushed through the milling prospectors to where he stood.
"Claussen. Isaac Claussen, if it makes any goddamned difference."
Esther heard the name, remembered Solana's comments about the man, and stared at him for a moment from the edge of the crowd.
"You will answer—"
"I will, shit," Claussen cut Barnett off. "One of these two greasers shot a man last night and another an hour ago. And we're about to try 'em."
"You can't do that!" Barnett said, taking a step forward. Immediately Claussen and three other miners seized him by the arms and neck.
Esther moved cautiously along the edge of the building toward the hitching post.
"Let the man loose," Coleman said. "He has done nothing—as yet. Sir, this is the way here. They have been accused of a crime, and they shall be tried for it."
The man tied up beside Murietta shouted at the top of his voice. "We have done nothing… nothing!"
"Shut up," Claussen bellowed.
Esther was within ten feet of the hitching rail when the miners turned their attention to Murietta.
He spoke calmly. "If you would examine the bullet in the wounded man, you would find that it is from a rifle. We carry only…"
"Examine the bullet?" a small, wizened old miner shouted. "You crazy goddamned greaser. The man may be dead in an hour, and you want someone to tamper with him?"
Barnett jerked free of Claussen's grasp and faced Coleman. "You seem to be a reasonable, intelligent man. Surely only one of these men could have fired the shot, if indeed one of them fired at all."
They had all turned back to Barnett and Coleman again. Esther moved immediately behind Murietta and began working on the leather thongs around his wrists. He showed no sign of her presence, remained perfectly still.
"That's true," she heard Coleman say. "But which one?"
"The point," Barnett said. "The very point. How can you try two men for a crime only one man could commit?"
"You think one'a them's gonna own up?" Claussen shouted. The crowd roared again, eager to get on with it.
"Can't you wait?" Barnett pleaded. "Hold these men until you are able to examine the bullet?"
"Who says we ever gonna be able to do that?" Claussen sneered.
Suddenly a burly arm curled around Esther's throat, pulling her away from Murietta. "She's tryin' to cut 'em loose!"
Squirming, Esther broke free and fell in the mud at Murietta's feet. Two miners grabbed her and held her arms. Claussen broke through the crowd and confronted Esther. "What the hell you think you're doin'?"
"Setting these men free!" Esther screamed, struggling. "You have no proof that they did anything!"
"You cannot reason with this animal," Murietta said, gazing levelly at Claussen. "He is out for blood. He has a personal grudge against me."
Claussen punched Murietta hard in the face.
"You beast," Esther screamed as she wrenched loose and lunged at Claussen. Clawing at him, she grabbed at his beard and yanked violently.
Claussen howled and threw her off. "Take hold of her," he ordered. "This here's gone far enough."
"Hang 'em," someone shouted. "Hang all of them!"
Several miners seized Barnett again.
"You will answer for this," he shouted. "Take your hands off her!"
Coleman, carefully weighing the mood of the crowd, took a step forward. "Isaac… it can wait for a moment while we talk."
"Talk, shit."
"If this is really Barnett," Coleman said, lowering his voice, "it could spell trouble for you—us—if anything happens to him or the woman."
"We're all in this together," a prospector shouted.
The crowd responded, "Yeah!"
"There is some question about who is guilty," Coleman said quickly. "It would be better not to hang them."
"What are we supposed to do?" Claussen countered. "Let 'em off clear and free?"
Coleman scanned the crowd. "No. Punish them." He leaned over and whispered something to Claussen.
The man next to Murietta on the hitching post worked at the leather loops encircling his right wrist.
"Better'n hanging," Claussen said, nodding his head. "Yeah. We'll horsewhip 'em and send 'em packin'."
"Just the two prisoners," Coleman said. "When it is finished, we will let the others go."
"What do you say t' that, boys?" Claussen shouted.
The crowd roared its approval. Someone produced a mule whip. Two men jerked and twisted Murietta over by his ankles until his arms crossed; two more men quickly snugged lariats around his ankles, holding him, legs splayed, as Claussen spit on his hands, rubbed them together, and took the whip.
"You will be tried for this!" Barnett shouted.
Claussen eyed him, thought for a moment, smiled, then handed the whip to one of the miners. "Twenty men, twenty lashes. One lash each man. You'll have to try us all."
Coleman whispered to Barnett, "They are almost out of control. This is better than a double hanging, isn't it?"
Barnett groaned, and Esther gasped as Murietta's shirt was ripped off and the first man laid the whip into him. A long cut opened across Murietta's shoulder blades.
"Don't say anything," Coleman whispered to Barnett. He turned to Claussen. "Twelve will be enough," he said, raising his voice. "And take that woman away. Take her into the saloon where she cannot see or hear this." He motioned to one of the miners. "You. Stand guard over her."
"Sit over there on one of them benches, ma'am," the enormous miner standing guard said, after two others had deposited her inside the saloon. His piggish eyes were too small for his face.
Esther stared at him for a moment, her mind whirring. "Would you tell me your name?"
"Carter. Bull Carter," he said, taking his hand off the holstered pistol he was wearing.
"Please help me," Esther pleaded. "I must stop them!"
"Can't do that, ma'am."
Esther's mind raced. "I'll give you five hundred dollars if you'll help me."
Carter thought for a moment. "Like to," he finally said. "But there ain't nothin' I could do with a crowd like that."
Esther heard the whip snap outside. Almost hysterical, she rushed toward the door.
Carter caught her by one arm, took out the pistol, and held it on her. He glanced around. "I'm not goin' to have no trouble from you, lady." He pushed her toward a curtained door off the main room of the saloon. "Git in there and stay quiet. I don't want to hurt you."
The room was a large parlor that led into the living quarters of the saloon-owner and his wife. She was rocking in a chair, staring at the red calico material that covered the wall behind her husband. He was lying on a pine plank, his face covered by a muslin dish towel, his hands folded neatly across the vest of his Sunday-best suit. Esther saw that the dead man was wearing his gunbelt, glimpsed the handle of the pistol protruding from the holster. A little girl of five rolled a hoop around the room with a stick.
When the child finally noticed Esther, she smiled and ran up to her father's bier and lifted the dish towel. She frowned and came back to Esther.
"Daddy got
shot by a greaser. Momma said so."
"In that icy water all day long, runnin' this house of the devil at night," the woman in the rocker said. "All for nothin'." She got up and stalked out through the curtain past Carter.
Esther crouched and took the child in her arms. "You poor baby," she said comfortingly. Noticing that Carter was watching the whipping outside through a window, she whispered in the little girl's ear. "If you will get me your father's pistol, I'll give you a dollar. But it has to be a secret."
The child put a finger to her lips, eyed Carter, then ambled over to the pine plank. Hiding the pistol behind her, she came back and handed it to Esther. Rising and swinging in one motion, Esther brought the butt down hard on the side of Carter's head.
Murietta's punishment completed, Claussen approached the other Californio.
Suddenly, the prisoner pulled his hand free, whipped a short knife out of a pocket, and held it to his own throat. "Hang me," he said to Claussen. "Hang me, but do not whip me like a dog! If you do, I will kill myself!"
Claussen eyed him. "He's bluffin'. Greaser's bluffin' to get outta it." He snapped the whip he was holding suddenly, coming up from the ground with it and curling the tip around the prisoner's free forearm. The man screamed. Claussen jerked at the whip. It pulled free, but the knife was still in the Californio's hand.
"God knows it is you who do this," he said to Claussen. "Only you."
Murietta pulled himself upright and stood swaying on buckling knees. He had never seen the man before this morning and had not particularly liked him, but that did not lessen his sense of horror as the Californio dug the blade of his knife deep under his own Adam's apple and slashed quickly to the right. Blood flooded down over his dirty frilled shirt and short, embroidered vaquero jacket. He dropped the knife and stared vacantly at Claussen just before his head lolled to one side and he crumpled to his knees.
Claussen turned to the crowd uncertainly. "Son 'bitch was crazy!"
Uneasy, some of the silent miners started to move off.
"Anybody do that rather'n be whipped got to be crazy," Claussen bellowed as more miners moved away. He turned to a few who stood gaping at the raw slash and the pulsing blood. "He deserved it," Claussen shouted. "He knew he shot…"
"Enough, Isaac," Coleman said.
Claussen's eyes were wild now. He was not prepared for this. "The other one here, I seen him before. He's no-count. Tried to rig a bull-and-bear fight."
They had all turned and were heading back to their tents.
"I would advise you to leave," Coleman said.
"I didn't lift a finger," Claussen whined, his eyes shifting back and forth from Coleman to Barnett. He turned to Murietta. "He did it to himself, didn't he?"
Half-turned, Murietta spat in his face. "One day i will kill you for this, Claussen."
Claussen raised a fist and spun Murietta around.
"Don't do that!" Esther shouted, standing in the doorway of the saloon. She pointed the dead saloon-owner's pistol at Claussen's face. "Step a little closer to me… I don't want to miss."
Barnett stepped in front of Claussen.
"Esther," he said, softly. "Don't lower yourself to the likes of this man."
Claussen opened his mouth and started to say something, then checked himself.
"He'll be punished, Esther. Please… for me… for yourself… God will punish him sooner or later." Barnett walked toward her slowly. "You must not throw away your own life for such scum. Listen to me…" He kept talking until he had the pistol and Esther slumped dead away in his arms.
Forty-seven
Murietta lay on his stomach. She reached out and traced a finger, barely touching him, along one of twelve purple, healing scars running diagonally across his back. She stopped, leaning over as she sat on the edge of the hide bed to see if he had awakened. He did not stir. She bent over and let her hair fall onto his shoulders, swaying her head gently, letting the mass of it brush down to his waist.
He turned over, eyes still closed, and whispered something in his sleep. He reminded her of a baby. She pulled the patchwork quilt down slowly and looked at him. He was not a baby. He was not as large as Mosby, nor was he small. Nor was he as perfectly shaped as Miwokan, or as compelling to look at as her husband. She thought about Alex for a moment and a wave of remembered love washed over her. It passed and she wanted to touch Murietta. Then she did not want to touch him. She touched him. She watched, fascinated, as her hand and his penis somehow remained attached to each of them, but were unattached at the same time, moving independently, taking on lives of their own.
She heard a faint murmuring of voices. She turned from Murietta and noticed that the bed was made of slowly melting metal. She looked back and saw Murietta's eyes were open. He wore an expression of hatred and—what was it in his eyes?—fear, behind the hatred, barely discernible. The murmuring grew louder until it hurt her eyes, and she saw the miners surrounding them…
It was no longer a bed but a heavy platform suspended beneath enormous, solid-metal cylinders. They were flat on one end, and there were more than she could count. Somehow they were melting and solid at the same time. Several of them began descending toward Murietta's legs and waist. His hands and feet were tied to the metal platform with mule whips. When she reached out to free him, rough hands pulled her back, and someone shouted, "What the hell you think you're doin', lady?" Then she saw him dragged along the ground and tied motionless on the platform simultaneously. He was surrounded by chunks of gleaming stone waiting to be crushed by the descending stamps of the mill. Horrified, she watched her own arm and hand reach out and pull the starting lever of the machine. She screamed but no sound came from her throat.
The crowd of miners watched, then applauded, as the stamps reached Murietta's legs and genitals first and began grinding them into pulp. He groaned through gritted teeth, screamed, and jerked one arm free. She shrieked continuously and the sound shut out all others. In his agony, Murietta flipped over and she saw the blood being squeezed out of him through a dozen open cuts across his back. Beyond him, Mosby laughed, Barnett strained to free himself from the grip of Coleman and Claussen, Miwokan wept helplessly, and Alexander Todd glared at her just before he turned and walked away. Suddenly, a wall of water as high as a house washed everything from view…
Esther awoke from the dream full of fear, her breath coming in short gasps, her heart pounding. She sat up, and for a full minute she stared at the oak beams above her, not fully believing she was in her own bedroom. The details of the dream were still so palpable, the beginning of it so like that first night after she and Barnett had brought Murietta to the ranch two months earlier, that she expected at any moment to find that what she saw now was a dream and the dream reality. She was certain that in the blink of an eye she would be standing beside the maw of Fremont's stamp mill again. God, I own part of it! Strangely, it did not look exactly the same as it had the first time Jessie Frémont took her to see it. She felt the wooden frame of the bed, the fur quilt, the fabric of her nightdress. She pinched the flesh under her biceps, touched at her cheeks and breasts.
When she was certain she was not dreaming, that she was in her own bed in her own house, where Murietta slept in the unfinished room next door, she lay back again and waited for the sick, hollow feeling to pass. She tried to sort out the unreal elements of the dream. And something else. She touched absently between her legs and recalled how conflicting emotions had pulled at her as she spread butter across Murietta's wounds that first night back at the ranch. Barnett had retired and she had stayed with Murietta for hours, sitting on the edge of her bed after the whiskey and fatigue had pulled him down into a deep sleep. She remembered easing the cover and the quilt back, at first curious and then aroused as she had not been since the night in the sweathouse with Miwokan. She had reached out to touch him, it, then pulled her hand back, overruled by the part of her that still loved Alex. She loved Murietta as well, more than she had ever realized, but not enough to make sexual
contact permissible.
During the two months he was healing, growing strong again, she had examined her feelings with greater scrutiny. She rationalized, concluded that her love for him was essentially that of a sister, and that her arousal was simply a physical phenomenon she would have to guard against. When she found herself stirred again one morning in late February as she watched him feebly chopping wood behind the long kitchen and dining room wing of the rancho, she redoubled her efforts to will away such thoughts. And then his silent, preoccupied unawareness of even her presence much of the time had begun to annoy her. Each time she thought it through, ridding herself of anger and irritability, she found that arousal and desire invariably took their place.
He had grown restless, more silent and moody with each predominantly idle day, and she was certain that he, too, felt the strain of living under the same roof in separate beds. At dinner the night before the dream, she had finally drawn him into the first semblance of a full conversation since the whipping.
"I am curious about something," she said. "When… it happened… you said that Claussen had a grudge against you. And then, as I was coming through the door of the saloon, I heard him say something about seeing you before. Something about a bull and a bear fight. Had you known Claussen?"
As Murietta explained what had taken place at Claussen's ranch, Esther realized with growing astonishment that the bear he was talking about had to be the same one that had burst through the door of her cabin. She was still recovering from the shock of that extraordinary coincidence, when Murietta used a brief descriptive phrase recalling what Claussen's friend had done to him following the bear's escape.
"Would you please repeat what you said when you described the man who made the bet with the other Californio?"
"Tall, with the nose of a hawk. I will never forget that face."
"Did he have a moustache?" Esther asked, an electric sensation spreading across the skin of her arms and the back of her neck.
"Yes," Murietta said, almost lost in memory and revived hatred. "And now he has also a scar where the bear clawed him open, from here to here." Murietta smiled sardonically as he drew a curving line down the back of one arm with his fingertip.